Saturday, July 18, 2009

...Well, I wrote a newspaper comic strip for the Editors Press Service, the syndicate that distributed Tom & Jerry, which, as I mentioned a while back in my review of a DVD of Chuck Jones Tom & Jerry cartoons I wrote for a bit. I knew the guy doing the strip, Rich Mauruzio, and he asked me to write it. I did about 6, 8 months of Tom & Jerry before the "rules" left me wrung of ideas. What were the rules? Well, no violence, for starters; in the kinder, gentler 1990s, Tom and Jerry did not hurt one another...they were buddies who merely chased each other for fun! And, no puns or language gags of any kind; 90% of the strips market was overseas (largely in Arabic countries, as I recall), rendering English puns et al lost in translation. So I recycled old gags, tried to set up set-pieces that I could return to again and again, and, I see in several these, just went surreal, especially with Screwy the Squirrel.

Anyway, as I pack up the old office for the impending move, I've been uncovering all sorts of stuff, including copies of about 10 or 12 weeks worth of Tom & Jerry proofs (that was the printed sheet they sent out to the newspapers to print the strips; I'll bet those don't exist anymore...), the only copies I have. I do have the scripts, however. I am a pack rat.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

It's been a while since I ran anything from the still-unpublished novel I wrote for DC Comics in 2005, JSA: Ragnarok (efforts to get it into print continue). More bits and pieces can be found here, here and here:

Rolf Steiner drew a last nervous puff on his cigarette before flicking the butt into the black, oily water of the Nord-Ostee-Kanal. The port at the mouth of the north German shipping canal in Kiel, which connected the Baltic with the Northern Sea some one hundred kilometers to the west, was, in the daylight hours, a bustling and heavily trafficked place.

After dark was another story. Now, in the dead of night, it was deserted and just plain scary.

This was a mistake, he thought. He never should have agreed to meet all alone like this. Who, outside of characters in bad espionage movies, arranged secret waterfront meetings at 3:30 in the morning?

Well, the dark haired man told himself, patting his overcoat pocket for reassurance, maybe it wasn’t only spies. People with contraband to sell also had to play like spies, better safe than sorry.

Except how safe was it to agree to these conditions, suggested by a stranger he knew only from an internet bulletin board and e-mails?

And a stranger interested in this sort of stuff, at that. A stranger who had seen Rolf’s posting on a site dedicated to such things. What kind of sick mind thought this stuff was cool anyway? He thought the whole fascination with the subject and its memorabilia was warped, yet it was all around, even here in Germany where you would think people knew better.

Rolf had learned at an early age to keep his own familial connection to the Nazis to himself. He was less than proud of the Steiner family history, and when anybody asked about his grandfather, he would say only he had never known the man, that he died in the war, thirty years before Rolf was born. Which was true, more or less. So what if he fudged the dates and omitted a few salient details? Yes, it was true that his grandfather Hermann Steiner had died a long time ago, though not exactly during the war. More like in 1947. In a Communist prison in East Germany, a result of the role he had played in the war.

The only reason Rolf even had the damned thing in his possession to begin with was because his father had hung onto it in the belief it might one day prove valuable. Which, as it turned out, it had. Still, if Rolf hadn’t been in need of money since losing his bartending job in Hamburg two months ago, he never would have even thought of going online to investigate its worth in the first place. Lord knows, there were more than enough internet sites dedicated to the Nazis. He had received over three hundred e-mails responding to his inquiry, most of them frightening in their adoration of Hitler and the Nazis. On the one hand, he felt the damned thing was cursed and hated to feed some Aryan sicko’s diseased interest. On the other, had he known what he would be offered for it, he might have done this a lot sooner.

But still.

Rolf pulled the red and white pack of West cigarettes from his pocket and lipped a fresh one from the crumbled package. He looked at his watch. The man, this Isaac, was due in just a few minutes and, for the umpteenth time that night, Rolf hoped he was doing the right thing.

“You are Rolf?”

The voice, speaking in accented German, came from the shadows of a stack of cargo containers piled on the edge of the canal, scaring the hell out of Rolf. The cigarette dropped from his mouth and he took a step backwards.

“Who...,” Rolf stammered. “Isaac?”

“Yes, I am Isaac.”

Isaac shuffled out of the shadows and into the meager lights that illuminated the waters edge.

Rolf almost laughed out loud in relief. Isaac was an old man, seventy-five or eighty years old if he was a day. He had once been a tall man, over six feet Rolf guessed, but time and age had bent his back. The white hair that framed his narrow bony face was long, combed straight back to hang below the collar of his black overcoat. His hands, when he took them from his pockets as he approached Rolf, were gnarled and twisted by arthritis.

There was nothing to be afraid of here, Rolf thought. He bent and retrieved his fallen cigarette, lighting it with deliberate nonchalance, as if to compensate for his earlier show of fear.

“It is good to meet you,” Rolf said.

“Yes,” Isaac said in German. “Do you speak English?”

Rolf nodded. “Yes,” he said, switching to English. “Enough, if it will make you more comfortable.”

The old man shrugged. “I just want to be sure there’s no misunderstanding.”

The unemployed bartender smiled. “As long as you can translate dollars into euros, there will be no problems. Your accent... you are American?”

Isaac ignored the question and said, “Do you have it?”

This one was all business, Rolf thought. He pulled the cloth-wrapped bundle from his pocket. Very well, two can play at that game. “Yes. Do you have the money?”

Isaac held out a gnarled hand. “May I?”

The corner of the old man’s mouth twitched. His breath became labored and his gnarled hands trembled as he carefully unrolled the rough, crumbling burlap that surrounded the object. Rolf felt a twinge of revulsion at the almost sexual reaction the nearness of this thing seemed to bring about in the other man. These people truly are mentally ill, he thought. Let’s just finish this as fast as possible and get out of here, Rolf thought.

Isaac gingerly pulled the object from its wrapping and held it up to catch the light from the nearest lamppost. As always when he looked at it, Rolf was struck by the sheer ordinariness of it: a hunk of wood, maybe half a meter long and roughly turned to a thickness of less than four centimeters, jagged at both ends where it was broken off from a larger whole. It was chipped with age and the tattered remnant of some dried, cracked leather binding hung from one end.

“Tell me again!” the old man repeated, louder this time, waving the stick in one twisted fist.

“Calm down,” Rolf said, further repelled by Isaac’s vehemence. He liked nothing about this man or their business together. “My grandfather was Oberleutenant Hermann Otto Steiner. He was an SS officer who served on Hitler’s personal staff at the end of the war... I brought his service papers with me, in case you need proof of his record.”

Isaac waved this aside, “Yes, yes, later. Go on.”

“Well, Hermann disappeared for almost a month after the fall of Berlin. My father said everyone believed he had died with Hitler in his bunker, but, he returned home to Bremen by the end of May, 1945. He would not say where he had been and he had with him this... item, which he said had been a piece of Hitler’s own walking stick. My grandmother wanted to burn it, but he wouldn’t allow it.”

Rolf shook his head in disbelief. “Grandfather was apparently a believer until the end. Until after the end. At any rate, he hid it away while making plans to escape with his family from Germany. I believe the idea was to go to South America and join other escaped Nazis. But Bremen was, of course, in the Soviet sector and the Russians were on the lookout for men such as him. He was arrested and died in prison some time later. After my grandmother’s death in 1992, my father was cleaning out her house and found the walking stick hidden in the basement where it had been since 1945. He kept it and, just before he died of cancer three years ago, passed it on to me.”

Isaac smiled. “So it’s been in your family’s possession since 1945?”

“Yes. I cannot vouch for my grandfather’s story of its origins, but I can assure you it is the same item that he brought home.”

“Indeed we do,” the old man said. “This is exactly what we’ve been searching for.”

“We?”

Isaac’s eyes danced with light, his aged face creased in a smile. “My friends and I.”

The younger man didn’t care to know anything about this strange old bird, but he could tell Isaac was just waiting for him to ask the question, so he said, “You are some sort of group? A club?”

“A society,” Isaac said, and reached into his pocket.

“Well, good. I am pleased this goes to people who will appreciate it. So, the price we agreed upon was, I believe, 10,000 euros?”

“That’s what we agreed on, yes. But now that I see it, I think it’s worth far, far more than that.”

Rolf blinked in surprise and confusion. “Yes?” If what he said was true, why in the world would the silly old man talk himself out of a bargain?

“Oh, yes, I’d go so far as to say it’s priceless.”

Isaac’s hand came out of his pocket. He fired a single shot into Rolf’s forehead from the silenced nine millimeter pistol gripped in his fist. The younger man went down as the back of his skull exploded in a grisly spray of blood and brain matter. He was dead before he hit the ground, before he had could even register what had happened to him.

Isaac pocketed the gun and without another look at his victim, turned and walked back into the shadows, smiling.

WASHINGTON, D.C. – A secret report prepared by the Federal Reserve Bank has delivered the most stunning economic news since the Savings and Loan scandal of the 1980s...and perhaps the most devastating blow to the American economy since the Great Depression. According to the report, since 1998, the People’s Republic of China has been buying up U.S. banks at an alarming rate.

“If this tide is not stemmed,” the 463-page report warns, “the United States will lose its economic freedom and become, in effect, a subsidiary of the People’s Republic of China.”

Dr. Jeffrey Spicoli, professor of economics at Harvard University and a Weekly World News consultant, said that the report, leaked by a high ranking administrative official, details the twisted economic road that lead to this historic turn of events.

“Communist China has taken to capitalism like a duck to duck sauce,” said Dr. Spicoli. “It didn’t take them long to learn the power of the almighty dollar.”

“The Chinese leadership had been dedicated to the fall of capitalism for decades. But after the 1991 collapse of the Soviet Union, their most powerful communist ally and the development of a more fully integrated global economy, China was forced to take a harder look at their place in the world.”

Ralph Tungsten, a board member of the World Bank, points to the 1999 reacquisition of financially vital Hong Kong by China as the turning point in the Chinese economic philosophy. “All of a sudden,” he said, “they were in control of one of the strongest economies in the Pacific Rim and they saw it was good.”

“The Chinese were quick to take advantage of the weakening American economy after the 2000 elections,” the Federal Reserve report states. “With the U.S. deficit running to $375 billion in 2003, $477 billion in 2004, and an estimated $362 for 2005, the Beijing government saw an opportunity to quietly infiltrate and expand their influence on the world’s strongest economy.”

“A deficit results when the country spends more oney than it takes in through taxes and the collection of duties on foreign goods,” explained Dr. Spicoli.

To make up the difference between what is earned and what is spent, the government borrows money—to be repaid, with interest—from other nations. These countries, in turn, will often “sell” these debts to other countries.

“In 2001 alone, China bought over $326 billion dollars worth of U.S. debt and that amount has increased as much as 127% a year since,” reveals Mr. Tungsten. “And rather than invest their profits back into China, they have been using their newfound wealth to buy American banks.”

Beginning with such small institutions as the Utah Savings And Loan, the First Bank of Spokane (WA), Brooklyn Savings, and the Montana Guarantee Trust in 2002, the First National Bank of China and the Chinese People’s Reserve Bank of the Glorious Revolution has gone on to acquire larger and larger banks.

“China now owns over one hundred U.S. banks worth more than $17 trillion dollars,” said Dr. Spicoli. “That makes them a majority shareholder in America. If they decided to call in, or demand repayment of trillions of dollars in debt, the country would be unable to pay and would be forced to default on their loans, making Beijing, in essence, the new owners of America.”

“The national security implications of Chinese ownership of America’s financial institutions are staggering,” the Fed report said. “They can manipulate the economy to cause inflation, recessions, or even a full-blown depression. They can even hold American foreign policy hostage by threatening economic sanctions if we go off in directions they do not like or are against their own interests.”

“These are dark days for the U.S. economy,” warns Dr. Spicoli. “The implications of Chinese ownership of U.S. banks will be much more serious than bank customers receiving woks instead of toasters for opening new accounts. America, like many Americans, is suddenly only one missed payment away from bankruptcy and Chinese ownership!”

And Then I Wrote...

Paul Kupperberg is

the writer of the best-selling and critically-acclaimed Life With Archie: The Married Life Magazine for Archie Comics. He is also the writer of hundreds of books, stories, comic books, and newspaper comic strips. He has written such comic book characters as Superman, Superboy, Supergirl, Vigilante, Power Girl, Aquaman, Green Lantern, Doom Patrol, Captain America, Conan, Captain Action, Archie, The Simpsons, Johnny Bravo, Scooby Doo, and dozens of others. He is the creator of the comic series ArionLord of Atlantis, Checkmate, and Takion, has written on-line web animation, the syndicated Superman and Tom & Jerry newspaper strips, the feature "Trash" for England’s 2000 A.D. magazine, humor and parody for Marvel’s Crazy Magazine and Weekly World News, stories featuring Star Trek, Dr. Who, the Phantom, Batman and the Green Hornet, as well as stories for various fantasy and horror anthologies, more than a dozen young adult non-fiction books on subjects ranging from history and science to biography and pop culture, the Spider-Man novels Crime Campaign and Murdermoon for Pocket Books, the young adult novel Wishbone: The Sirian Conspiracy (with Michael Jan Friedman), the humor book Jew-Jitsu: The Hebrew Hands of Fury, the novel JSA: Ragnarok, and storybooks featuring Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman for Stone Arch Books. Paul has also been an Editor for DC Comics, Executive Editor of Weekly World News and Senior Editor of World Wrestling Entertainment’s WWE Kids Magazine.

I didn't write it but i AM be writing the sequel, LIFE WITH ARCHIE: THE MARRIED LIFE

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The opinions expressed here are those of the author, who is solely responsible for this blog's editorial content. They do not reflect the views of any publication or production to which the writer has contributed nor any corporation by which he may have been employed.